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Waylon groans as I nod strongly and meet her in the middle, hooking our pinkies together.
“Come on, Way. Don’t be a butthead. It’s for the greater good.”
He rolls his eyes, but sighs, and says, “Fine. But I don’t wanna get in trouble.”
“We won’t, not unless we have to. We’ll be stealthy. Plus, we’re the good guys. We just might have to get our hands dirty sometimes. But heroes always come out on top, right?”
I nod. “Right.”
She nods back firmly, and Waylon and I grin. She’s so ridiculous when she gets like this—all serious and in charge.
She huffs and shakes our curled pinkies impatiently in Waylon’s face.
He finally joins us, awkwardly twisting his finger with ours. When we’re finally all connected, Izzy looks at each of us, her brown eyes blazing red in that way they do when she’s excited and determined. “For JJ.”
“For JJ,” I say back. Waylon murmurs the same.
“And for anybody else gettin’ picked on,” Izzy adds, scowling. “Stupid bullies.”
I nod, and this time Waylon’s the one who mimics her words, his voice low and bitter.
“All for one?” Izzy says, looking at each of us.
Waylon and I murmur back, our pretend swords raised in the air. “And one for all.”
At the same time, we all lean forward, kiss the side of our knuckles, and then spit behind our shoulders.
It’s this moment, right here, that I realize just how happy I am that Mom moved us to Shiloh.
I have the best friends ever.
Izzy and Waylon and…
And Jeremy.
I frown, wishing he was here…
A horn beeping from somewhere has me flinching, the memory dissolving.
A heavy tension permeates the car. Save for the low hum of the engine, and whoosh of passing cars, it’s utterly quiet. I wish Ray would turn on the radio. But he’s pissed, so I don’t risk asking.
Just like all those years ago, the first time we got in trouble for defending Jeremy when he was hospitalized for an ulcer, we had to be picked up from school for fighting. Only this time, Waylon’s not with us. And Jeremy… well, he’s not in the hospital, so that’s something.
I flex and release my fingers in my lap a couple times, wincing at the stiffness as a bolt of pain shoots up my elbow.
The nurse said I was lucky I didn’t break my hand, punching Clay like I did.
I’ve never punched someone before. And while I know I did it right—Mom had this boyfriend once, a couple years ago, who taught me how to form a proper fist and had me practice on this heavy bag he hung from our garage rafters—I didn’t account for how hard a human jaw would be.
Lucky I didn’t break anything is right.
Though I don’t feel so lucky right now, wondering how long it’ll be before I can play piano again.
As soon as that thought appears though, a different thought moves in, followed by flashing images of Jeremy’s downturned face. The bruise. The cut. His tears…
And that picture.
That fucking goddamn picture.
